 | The bridal of Vaumond |  |
XVII.
Sore Lodowick had toil'd, and long,While still awoke the demon song.
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And suffocating, round him blew
Sulphureous currents,—and he might
Afar descry a pale blue light:—
So lately lur'd, will he agen,
Trust hope within this fearful den?
It was not hope—it was the burst
That darts man on to dare the worst—
To brave all peril—rash, to pry
Into the realms of mystery.
| The bridal of Vaumond | |